A Fish Called Olivia
by PoppyB
Summary: She named her damn fish after him. Which proved she had been thinking of him, even a little, while she'd been gone. Which changed everything.


"My fish died," she said out of the blue. They'd been driving around in the car all morning pretending everything was all right and that the awkwardness between them wasn't still there, and she said it, not only because it was true, but because she was tired of shoptalk, of polite yes and no answers, of pretending that they were OK, even after months of not seeing one another and not talking and not working together.

His eyes widened a bit in surprise and he opened his mouth like he was going to say something, stopped like he thought better of it, then opened it again.

"I didn't know you had a fish," he said. Then, "Sorry. That it died."

"How could you have known?" she said, then realizing that sounded kind of bitchy, she quickly added, "Thanks." She wondered exactly when she became aware of how she "sounded" when she talked to Elliot.

It was Friday. They'd been working together since Monday and she hadn't planned to tell him about the fish at all. It had died Sunday night, the night before she was scheduled to return to the one-six for the first time. She'd gone to the tank to feed it and there it was, sort of stuck in the leaves of the fake plant, belly up. She'd stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do or feel. It was only a fish, after all. She tapped the side of the small plastic tank with a fingernail and its limp fins had wobbled slightly.

"Shit," she'd murmured, wondering what to do next. She'd never owned a fish before, never had a pet of any kind. She'd almost called Elliot to ask him about Dead Fish Protocol, like she would have done before. Instead, she put down the tube of fish food, sank back on her haunches and cried a little. It was only a fish, after all, but she was tired and anxious about work and seeing everyone again and her damn fish was dead. She entertained a fantasy about putting the fish in a matchbox (she didn't have one, but it seemed fitting for this particular fantasy), and burying it somewhere. Where? At the park? Under a floorboard? Or maybe carrying it around in her pocket until it rotted. Yeah.

In the end she flushed it down the toilet, of course, a tiny swirl of gold in the white bowl, one, two, three times around and gone. Then she methodically dumped the water out of the fish tank, scrubbed the scum off the sides and put it back in its place on her table. She put three different kinds of lotion on before she went to bed, but her hands still stank of dead fish.

She went in to work the following morning with a big smile and coffees and hugs for everyone, even Elliot who looked like he wouldn't touch her with a 10-foot pole. He handed her some folders and crossed his arms in front of his chest in the classic defensive position while he filled her in on the latest case, and so it went.

So it went.

And here it was, Friday. Their conversations, and that term was generous, were at best stilted and at worst, nonexistent. They used to banter, a long time ago. They used to joke and jibe. Before she left they'd sniped and snapped. Now they had to cast about for safe subjects, non-inflammatory remarks and polite replies.

This is what they talked about:

Work: "Got that file number?"

"I think so. Is this it?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

The weather: "Cold, huh?"

"Yeah. Really."

Coffee: "This tastes like crap."

"Mine's okay."

This is what they didn't talk about:

Dani.

Olivia's assignment.

How much they had missed each other.

And here it was, Friday, and everything was the same and nothing was the same. They couldn't seem to get on equal footing. Everything was off, unbalanced, like two people trying to cross a tightrope from opposite ends at the same time. They stumbled over one another, literally; she'd almost tripped him when they got off the elevator at the courthouse on Tuesday - "Sorry," she'd mumbled; "S'okay," he'd replied - and they'd bumped heads when they both tried to retrieve a sheaf of papers she knocked off her desk on Thursday. This morning he almost closed the car door on her hand _and didn't even notice._

She didn't tell him.

"So," he said now, clearing his throat and glancing over at her. "When did you buy a fish?"

"In Oregon," she said. It was the first time she'd said the word aloud in his presence. It felt like a secret revealed. It felt like guilt. "I had, uh, this tiny little apartment and it was ugly and old. Bare light bulbs with metal chains. That kind of thing. I dunno. It needed something _alive_ I guess. I was just going to get some plants, you know? But I always end up killing them."

He looked over and their eyes met and they both smiled.

"Don't say it," she warned, trying not to laugh.

"Wouldn't dare," he said.

"So," she continued, biting hard on the inside of her cheek, "one day I was just wandering around downtown and I came across this pet store. And I thought, fish."

"Not, hamster? Bird?"

"There were already rats in the apartment. And birds are too noisy. A fish just seemed...perfect. So, I got the whole starter kit. The little blue plastic tank with the lid that opens on top. Purple stones. A plastic plant with a suction cup on the bottom."

And the fish."

"Elliot."

"What?" He turned to look at her, his blue eyes clear and questioning. God, I love this man, she thought suddenly, then shoved the thought away. She hadn't _ever_ planned to tell him this part.

"Uh, that's what I called the fish. Elliot."

He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, stopped like he thought better of it, then opened it again.

"Hey, you hungry? Wanna get some lunch?"

* * *

He hated the way things were now between them. He hated it as much as he hated listening to commercials on his favourite radio station, as much as he used to hate stepping on Cheerios scattered across the kitchen floor with his bare feet. As much as he used to hate trying to wipe his kids' noses when they were babies; one hand curled firmly around the backs of their impossibly fragile necks, the other poised with tissue, ready to grab their noses before they bucked and twisted, spreading snot across their chubby cheeks.

Actually, he missed doing that.

So, Olivia was back from undercover and Dani was gone and they didn't talk about any of it. They were stuck in the car together, sometimes for hours a day and they were supposed to pretend it was all good, all like it was before. Except, it had all pretty much sucked before anyway and even though when she left (abandoned) him he'd been lost and desperate and irate, it was _almost_ a relief to have a break from each other.

For awhile.

Then days had turned into weeks and months and working and sleeping with Dani had quickly lost its initial excitement and appeal and he found his thoughts turning more and more frequently to Olivia. He found himself looking forward to seeing her again with a lovesick intensity he associated with Dickie's teenage fawning over his latest nubile girlfriend.

And then she came bouncing back, smiling, bearing coffees. She'd _hugged_ him, for Christ's Sakes. They'd never hugged and there she was putting her arms around him and he felt his body react, pull away in surprise and anger. Yep, he was angry and he was damned if he was going to fall for this sunshine and flowers act she was throwing around.

But, here it was Friday, and her fish had died. Her fish Elliot.

She named her damn fish after him. Which proved she _had_ been thinking of him, even a little, while she'd been gone. Which changed everything.

Unless. Unless, she'd killed the fish on purpose. Which also changed everything.

You doing anything after work?"

She almost choked on her sandwich. She was laughing. She reached for a napkin and wiped egg salad off her mouth, shaking her head. She grinned at him. "No."

God, I missed her smile, he thought.

"Good," he said casually. "There's this place I wanna take you."

* * *

"Ed's Excellent Fish Emporium," Olivia read the flashing neon sign as the car rolled into the lot. "I've heard places like this exist, but I've never seen one with my own eyes."

"Used to bring the kids here every couple of weeks," Elliot said as they walked towards the inanely smiling fish heads painted on the front doors. "We must have gone through a fish a month, at least. And every single one of them was named Goldie."

Olivia was like a kid in a candy store and Elliot loved every minute, following her around as she perused the hundreds of tanks filled with various odd and beautiful sea creatures. He could feel the weeks and months of stress and worry sloughing off him with every _oooh_ and _ahhh_ emitted from her mouth.

"This really _is_ an excellent emporium," she said, bending down to get a closer look at a school of colourful sunset platy.

"Why don't you get a little stingray?" Elliot asked, leaning down beside her.

"Yeah, they're so cute when they're babies..."

He saved the sharks for last, unveiling their huge tank at the back of the store in all their fierce primordial glory. Her eyes widened, her mouth dropped slightly open.

"Now I know where we can bring the perps when they won't cooperate," she said.

"No kidding."

He showed her all his favourites; the rosy barbs and corydoras, the dwarf gourami and zebra danios.

"I used to spend hours here with the kids, but I can't remember the last time I was here."

"Thanks for bringing me," she said quietly.

"Hey, we have to replace poor Elliot, right?"

"Yeah," she looked down, smiled. "Poor Elliot."

"So, what's your poison?"

"Oh, I'm just going to get another goldfish. Nothing too fancy for this pet killer."

"Right this way."

Surprisingly, it took her a full five minutes to pick just the right fish. Elliot wasn't sure what criteria she was looking to fill, but she finally pointed to the one she wanted and the clerk netted it for her.

"And I want that one," Elliot said, surprising himself just as much as her.

"You're getting a fish?"

He shrugged, one-shoulder, embarrassed, but not enough to change his mind. He suddenly wanted one, very much.

"Why not? I still have a bowl somewhere in my apartment. My ugly, old apartment with bare lightbulbs and metal chains. Y'know."

"Elliot-"

"You talking to me or the fish?"

"You're never going to let that one go, are you?"

"Not ever."

They carried their little bags to the car, and Olivia held them while they drove. The ride home was infinitely warmer and more comfortable.

"How are your kids, anyway?" Olivia asked into the silence.

"Good. Busy. They have to "schedule" visits with me now. Their social lives put mine to shame." Elliot stopped. He watched the fish bobbing placidly in their bags. "Saw Kathy a couple weeks ago."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. She...uh she stopped by. Wanted to know why I haven't signed the divorce papers yet."

She looked at him. His hands gripped the steering wheel and he was making a face like he was biting tinfoil, and she wondered exactly why the hell he was telling her that.

"Why haven't you?"

He shrugged again, irritated, but without an answer. He glanced over at her and she offered a small smile. He nodded. Something to dig at later. Maybe next week, she thought, they could have another conversation.

"So how's Elliot the Second holding up?"

"Oh, I'm not calling him that. It's bad luck. This one is definitely Goldie."

"Do you have any idea how many Goldies have been stepped on, washed down the sink, mauled by cats and flushed away over the years?"

"Still...so what are you calling yours?"

"Goldie," he said without missing a beat. They smiled at each other. "And, there's no such thing as luck, in love, or with fish."

"Elliot, if you and I didn't have bad luck, we'd have no luck at all." Sometimes she wished she'd fucking think before she spoke.

"Not bad luck, Liv. Bad timing." He paused, testing the waters. "Look, we've been partners for seven years, y'know? That must count for something. Most marriages don't last that long."

She nodded, secretly pleased. She held up the bags.

"Maybe my fish will call your fish on the phone later."

"Maybe my fish will take yours on a date."

"Maybe they'll get married one day and give us grandfishies."

"That's just twisted, Liv."

He dropped her off outside her apartment. She leaned in the window, smiling like she used to do, a million years ago. He could feel small tendrils of some foreign emotion curling in his gut. He thought it might be happiness.

"Try to keep this one alive at least until Monday," he said.

"You, too," she retorted. "See ya, El."

"Yeah. See ya."

* * *

He found the small, dusty fishbowl in a box of stuff marked "Stuff" he hadn't unpacked in the bedroom closet. He filled it with tap water and poured the fish in. He pushed an empty beer bottle aside and put the bowl on his bedside table. He tapped some food in, watched the fish eat eagerly. He lay down, watched the fish swim lazy circles around and around. He felt his eyes droop.

Good or bad luck notwithstanding, this fish did not look like a Goldie after all. This fish had class. It had grace.

This fish was beautiful.

He tapped the bowl gently with his finger.

"G'night, Olivia."


End file.
